


Spellsong

by InkAtHeart



Category: Sherlock (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU Witcher, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Gendershifter Sherlock, Lots of Nakedness, M/M, Magical Violin, Not immediately involved with sex, Oneshot, Somehow not crack, because reasons, incubus sherlock, send help, the crossover nobody asked for, weird crossover, witcher john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkAtHeart/pseuds/InkAtHeart
Summary: John's ears rang with a soft sound, a melody with no tune, a whirling hum that was both pleasant and grating. Music, yes, but the vibration was off. It was familiar only in that he recognized the magic threading like undertow, a silent danger that could sweep someone down and steal their life in an instant.Spellsong.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	Spellsong

**Author's Note:**

> After watching the Witcher and talking with a friend, this rogue plot bunny appeared and ran amok for a few days. I don't even know what's going on anymore, but I thought it was interesting so I'll post it.
> 
> Originally intended to be 3 parts, I've been busy and Animal Crossing is about to drop so I'm just gonna keep this a oneshot and go disappear onto my private island getaway for a few weeks.

The trail from Crow's Perch to Heatherton was quiet. John had little intention of visiting the small village, but the road was easier on Harriet's hooves and he'd pushed her hard the day before. He could let her stay on the road for a little longer before he set up camp for the night.

John reached down to smooth his hand over Harriet's neck, gloved hands sliding over sweaty hair. Hopefully there was a lake nearby where he could wash the beast down.

Seeking a direction, the Witcher closed his eyes and took a deep inhale, letting his senses stretch out and sharpen. He was looking for the scent of water or the sound of a river, picking up the smells and sounds of the forest on either side of the road. Moss and soil, dead leaves, bird wings and their mating calls, leaves clattering together as the wind makes them dance in the dying sunlight of the day… The recent rainfall made everything smell fresh and alive, filling his lungs with life and nature, a welcomed reprieve from many things he'd smelled and tasted in his life.

Then, as he stretched further, something different… His ears rang with a soft sound, a melody with no tune, a whirling hum that was both pleasant and grating. Music, yes, but the vibration was off. It was familiar only in that John recognized the magic threading like undertow, a silent danger that could sweep someone down and steal their life in an instant.

Spellsong.

His eyes snapped open, back stiffened in Harriet's saddle. Whether it was monster or sorcerer, a Spellsong promised trouble for a small village like Heatherton. He reached back and ran a gloved finger over his beloved bow, Sig, reminding himself that she was there, and checked down by his leg where his quiver hung from the saddle.

He shifted and dug his heels lightly into the beast's sides, urging her on at a quickened pace. She nickered and complained quietly, but obeyed. She knew her rider wouldn't urge her without good reason.

As they walked, John closed his eyes again and listened. The tune returned, gaining energy as he drew closer. At first the sounds were more vibration than music, but slowly that changed. Swells and dips started to focus and form in his mind, resembling the soft whine of horse-hair over chord. An instrument, something sensual and sharp.

John finally pulled back, returning to himself and blinking as the world settled into proper place around him. He could smell the smoke from a hearth in the air now, and his ears picked up the non-magicked sounds of the village just ahead.

Heatherton was a small village, a handful of houses and roads that were only designated by the wheelbarrow and horse tracks sank into the mud and muck. It wouldn't surprise John if some sorcerer or creature was trying something corrupt in such a backwoods place.

He could hear the song now, muffled only by the wooden walls of what had to be the tavern. The largest building, and one of the few with signs of life inside.

It was quiet outside, no signs of other human life. Not a good sign, in his professional opinion. He drew Harriet to a halt and dismounted, walking her to the nearby trough to drink while he went to investigate.

As a Witcher he stood out something fierce, with white hair and dark marks around his eyes. The crest hanging from his neck didn't help matters either. So he prowled around the tavern first, listening to the sounds inside. The sound of a fiddle - no, not as sharp…softer. Violin. That was a rare instrument to hear outside of a royal court.

Long, sonorous notes ebbing and flowing like a tide through the air, John could feel it against his mind. Even as resistant to magic as he was, the music itself was good and appealing. He shook it off with a huff and finally finished his scouting of the perimeter, circling around to Harriet to grab his daggers and attach Sig to the saddle. She would be useless in such close quarters, and with so many innocents so close together.

He set daggers to his belt as he finally approached the door, took a breath and pushed it open to step inside.

People milled about, it seemed like everyone in town was crowded in like pigs in a slaughterhouse. John's guard immediately went up as he searched the blank faces of the villagers. They sat at their tables, ate and drank and served as quietly as if they were without mind. Thralls?

His eyes darted around, seeking, searching, finally finding the source of the music.

A lone man sat on the wooden bartop, feet placed on the stool in front of him. He was long-limbed and elegant, a sight of pure beauty with porcelain skin and lazy dark curls pulled away from his face. Resting between shoulder and chin, held out and gripped with dexterous fingers, was a blackwood violin with music coaxed out from a sleek black bow that danced expertly over the chords.

John knew that this man couldn't be human. No mortal was that beautiful. The only other time he'd come across one like this was when he was still in training. A Succubus - except not this one. No. Same vein of monster, only slightly different.

The Incubus opened his eyes, a striking shade of otherworldly gray and looked right at John. He didn't pause in his playing, but quirked the corners of his lips up in a coy little smirk, a silent challenge for John.

John found himself swallowing down a sudden tightness in his throat. Ccubi weren't naturally violent without reason, they were rarely hunted outright because they were rarely caught. This one was being blatant, he was showing off.

The Witcher shouldered past several enthralled villagers, the sound of his boots striking in sharp antithesis to the harmonic sound of the violin until he stopped directly in front of the bar before the Incubus. If the creature felt threatened, he hid it very well.

"I'm gonna need you to stop that, demon," John spoke plainly, "Your spells don't work on me."

The music didn't stop immediately. Instead the Incubus worked the melody into a rising crescendo, louder and sharper than before. John glanced warily around him, expecting the enthralled villagers to attack and defend their 'Master.' Nothing of the sort happened though, and the bow wobbled gracefully as the tune dipped down in an elegant finish and finally died away. The ringing of magic in the air softened, but didn't fade.

The Incubus lifted his chin and pulled the instrument away, twisting it elegantly to rest on the bartop beside him. His eyes never left John's, and his smirk grew to a full, mischievous smile. When he spoke, his voice was far deeper than John had expected, full and rich and sinful, "Can I help you, Witcher?"

John's returning smile was tense, his hand coming to rest on one of the silver daggers at his hip, "Letting these villagers go would be a start."

"They don't seem to be hurting," the Incubus huffed, "In fact, by my vantage point, they're all giving off such pleasant energy."

"Yeah and that there. You could stop that too, feeding off these poor folks. It's a bit not-good." John dropped his chin to his chest and let out a sigh.

"Would you ask a man not to eat bread he has earned just because he is not a baker?" the creature pondered, head cocked to the side as he sought answer to his query.

John scoffed. "You've turned them into zombies to feed on them."

"It's not permanent," the Incubus tipped his head back as he rolled his eyes, then poked John in the center of the chest with his bow, "It's just a little energy from them. They won't even feel it."

John cocked a brow, "Yeah about that. I thought your lot fed off of sexual energy. These folks still have all their clothes on, thank the Gods for that mercy."

"Not exclusively," the creature huffed. John reached up to bat the tip of the bow from his leather chestpiece and got a scowl for it. "Think of it like different kinds of food. Vegetables, fruits, meat, candy…"

"So sex would be…?"

"A five course meal," the Incubus smirked.

"And this is…?" he gestured towards the villagers, some of whom were slowly starting to waver and blink now that the Spellsong's influence was fading.

The Incubus sneered a little, "Like eating a raw potato. Far from ideal or desirable, but it works."

John sighed again. He was loathe to pointlessly kill intelligent creatures, especially ones who weren't inherently harmful.

"Do you have a name, dear Witcher?" The Incubus was lowering his feet to the floor, unfolding himself to his full height which towered over John by almost a full head. The Witcher had to crane his neck to keep eye-contact, and he couldn't ignore the thrum of arousal that pulsed through him at the sight of this creature.

"I do," was all John offered.

The Incubus hummed softly, "Well, Witcher… You're a decent man. An ex-soldier from the north, an archer. Your father was a tradesman and your mother-"

This time John drew his knife, a fury flashing to life in his breast like alcohol in a hot pan. His thrust was easily deflected, the Incubus doing little more than raising a hand to change the trajectory of the attack, "Get out of my head!" he snarled.

The Incubus huffed, "I'm not in your head, dear Witcher. I'm afraid mind reading is not one of my many skills." He had gotten closer, pressed in until the heat of his breath played over John's face.

"Bollocks to that. There's no way you could know-"

"The buckle on your shoulderpiece there," gray eyes flicked momentarily to the piece, "It dons a family crest from the North. You may be a Witcher but you wear your hair like a soldier, keep a stiff back and square shoulders, you _walk_ like a soldier."

"And my father?" John hissed.

"Perhaps a bit of a reach, that one, but your boots. Witchers don't often have nice things, but those boots are of fine make. We already established that you were a soldier, likely taken in at a younger age, but you need to have significant bartering skills to get footwear that nice on a Witcher's coin. Thus, someone had to teach you. Mercantile is not on the list of things they teach soldiers or Witchers, so my deduction is that it had to be a family member. Father, most likely. How am I doing so far?"

John was taken a little off-guard by the perception that this creature showed. "That…" he sighed and couldn't help the odd bloom of admiration in his chest, "Was bloody brilliant."

The Incubus smirked again, the motion crinkling the corners of his eyes with that delighted mischief.

John huffed a little, regathering his senses and stepping back and away. "Clever tricks won't change anything. You can't be here feeding off of innocent people."

The Incubus pouted, "But I'm _hungry._ And if I go without eating for overlong, then I have to feed more substantially. Then I really could hurt someone."

"That's not my problem. I'm letting you leave with your life, so count your blessing."

More villagers were starting to come to their senses. John felt antsy with that. Golden eyes jumped from face to face as people started to catch on that something was wrong. "Best get to it quick now."

"Your name, Witcher, then I'll leave." He reached back and picked up his violin like it would break at a stiff breeze.

" _Is that a Witcher?_ " he heard someone ask.

He swallowed and eyed the Incubus up and down, frowning. "John. Off you go now."

The creature hummed, and for a moment John wondered if he wouldn't honor his deal. He turned his gaze to the door and sighed softly, shaking his head, then shrugged. "Very well. Cruel, forcing a man to starve."

"Not a man," John reminded him sternly.

There was something sad in the creature's eyes, it flashed for a brief second before it was gone. Then he turned, pausing once more, "Sherlock…" he offered, then left on silent feet.

John took a breath and held it, feeling the tavern return to life around him. With it was unease and distrust from the people he'd just helped. He sighed out his held breath, grabbed the stool that Sherlock had been using for a footrest, and sat down.

* * *

The following morning was quiet and calm. John was thankful that the villagers of Heatherton had let him eat and drink in relative peace, wanting to make sure that the Incubus didn't slither back in as soon as John was gone.

Harriet was irritable, and John couldn't blame her. She was tired and tacky with sweat and mud, and John owed her a bit of attention for all her work.

He took them south from the village, back the way they'd come and across the main road towards a river John knew ran the forest there. The mare was patient as she was unsaddled and stood patiently by the water while John washed and rubbed her down. He did a quick cleaning of her hooves, checked her shoes, her teeth, her eyes, and was able to confirm that her worst malady was just a sour temper from being left saddled for most of the night prior.

Without much of a direction and no immediate need to be anywhere, John set the horse to graze and relax while John set up a meager little camp to make breakfast (a hare he'd shot on their way to the river) and assess what he was to do next. Sometimes the life of a Witcher could be boring.

With everything set up, John shrugged out of his leathers and smalls, going to the river to wash up for himself. Of course, he had far from forgotten the Incubus from the night before. It was something he kept close to his mind as he felt eyes on him throughout the morning. He knew he was being watched - he'd taken a meal from a monster, and that probably meant he would have to put that monster down when it sought revenge.

Stripping down was inviting Sherlock's wrath. Naked, defenseless (at least by appearance), and seemingly with his guard down. If the Incubus was going to make itself known, now would be the time…

He was just finishing with his bath, quick, efficient, keeping his waist well under the water to keep his focus sharply on the fact that Sherlock was a monster, not just a very pretty man. A hand touched the back of his shoulder, on the wide plane of a scarred shoulderblade.

John reacted, fast and merciless, swinging back with his arm and twisting around to give a follow through with his other fist. Both attacks caught only air as Sherlock ducked the first and backstepped the second, a grin wide on his lips as silver-gray eyes danced with delight.

"Now that's hardly any way to greet a friendly face," Sherlock chided lightly.

John smirked but kept his posture stiff, ready, letting the creature know that he wasn't going to back down. "Well it's good you're not a friendly face then…"

Sherlock pouted, those beautiful features twisting in something like upset. "I could be, you know. I might be what you consider a _monster_ but I'm far from evil… I have no desire to hurt you, John. I'm sure you of all people know how it feels to be treated without basic human decency."

"You're trying to get in my head and I won't have it. I let you go last night, it's a kindness I'm not likely to show again." John hardened his gaze.

Sherlock was naked in the river with him, taller than John so that the water swirled just at the top of the V of his hips. John's gaze flicked over the creature, assessing him in his entirety. "Seduction won't work either. Not really into blokes I'm afraid."

Sherlock huffed softly, "You don't have to be," he came forward and John went tense again, "I have all the important bits you want."

"Wrong, that one. I like a bit more padding on the chest," he smirked, smug, knowing he was only able to hold his composure because of the river water being cold enough to make his feet start to go numb.

Sherlock's answering smirk was purely devious, eyes dark, "Care to test that theory?"

"Not particularly. Last warning, demon," John braced himself.

The Incubus didn't take the warning. He kept coming forward, reached out one hand as it to touch John's side.

The Witcher swung, expecting it when the creature reeled back. He followed through, another swing, Sherlock dipping and using the flow of the river to improve his speed as he came up behind John's shoulder. He followed the motion, spinning and swinging, losing his patience as the monster just flowed between each strike like he was water himself.

John was quick to lose his patience, hand going into the water, using his foot to kick up the silver knife he'd been keeping hidden just beneath. He slashed, keeping his arc short, free arm tucked in close to prevent an opening. Sherlock was forced back a little further, his smirk fading as his eyes caught sight of the silver - perhaps now he would understand that John meant business.

John lunged, another swing, and this time instead of backing off the creature ducked, twirled and moved in. "I haven't danced in quite a while, Witcher. It's refreshing."

The Witcher just snarled and jerked, stabbing only for the bastard to moved with John as perfectly as if this _was_ a choreographed dance. The smirk returned.

Sherlock's hand went to settle at John's waist and he took the opportunity to grab the Incubus's wrist in a crushing grip. He yanked, flipped the blade in his hand and swung for a violent stab, the creature arching back and narrowly missing before Sherlock reversed the grip and pushed, sending John staggering, twirling, out and then back.

He was momentarily confused by the act, then grit his teeth. Enough of this.

Power welled up in his chest and his iron grip released at the same time he pushed his other hand forward. A pulse of magic energy burst outward, flinging water and Incubus back to the bank. John's follow-through was fast, lunging after the creature and upon him before the water stopped falling.

Sherlock looked dazed, then stilled as the silver of John's knife pressed to his throat, hissing softly, burning the flesh. The Incubus finally flinched, finally showed a brief flicker of fear. Good. Let this monster know what it was to piss off a Witcher.

"I don't kill intelligent monsters without good reason," he snarled down at the sharp features beneath him.

Sherlock just huffed, "And I don't kill humans without good reason. So we are, perhaps, at an impasse."

John snorted cruelly down at the Incubus, "You followed a bloody Witcher and tried to attack him while he was defenseless. You spout a lot of smart words but you're obviously not that intelligent."

The flesh on the Incubus's throat was turning black, dark tendrils curling up the underside of a pretty, well sculpted jaw. He let out a strangled sound, squirming to try and get away from the silver.

There was a spark of something, a feral sort of look seen in the eyes of cornered beasts and men. A will to live, someone pushed a step too far.

The Incubus snarled a word that John didn't have the time to process before he was being flung up and back in a wave of fire, crashing back into freezing waters.

He scrambled to right himself, lost his dagger along the way but staggered back to his feet in the river.

There, on the bank of the river, stood the Incubus in unglamored form… Long hands and feet tipped in black claws, a pair of dark, jagged horns raising from the tops of his brows, eyes blazing golden-red, a long white tail tipped in fire, and not one, but two sets of leathery wings folded behind him. This was what the demons his behind their beauty…except…

"Bloody hell," John panted, shoulders sagging. Without his dagger and standing on the low ground, he knew when to leave well-enough alone.

Sherlock snorted, his lips pulling back in a sneer over jagged onyx teeth, "If I had wanted you dead, dear Witcher, you would have never left Heatherton." His voice was still sinful and low, but now it had an added reverberation that trembled through John's bones. He heard the voice with his mind as much as his ears, and the sounds made his eyes go cross for a moment.

Another soft sound, something like a chuckle, "You feel it now, don't you. You understand the truth of my words."

Slowly the glamour started to return, the extra bits pulling in and the reddened eyes misting back to gray. He stood as he did before, the burned skin either healed or hidden, chin tipped up in a regal display in spite of (or perhaps in part from) the nudity he wore so easily.

John shook his head to clear the double-vision and huffed, "Then why are you here?"

Sherlock just scoffed, "Why else would I be here? Last night you interrupted my dinner. Now you're going to repay me."

John scowled as he carefully trudged to the bank, waiting to see if the action sparked added violence. It didn't, and he took a few steadying breaths before he squared his shoulders and reached up to push his hair fully back from his face. He wasn't stupid enough to ask 'With what' because he knew what the creature wanted.

"You think I'm just gonna…what…treat you to a meal? Me?" He laughed, the idea so ridiculous in his mind.

The Incubus stepped forward, swaying his hips lazily, "I've heard rumors of a Witcher's stamina. And I can _feel_ the energy rolling off of you. You've more than enough to spare."

"I kill monsters, I don't feed them," he added, "And once again, you don't really have the parts I-"

Sherlock's smirk was salacious, his gaze sharper than any knife or arrowhead in John's arsenal. He swallowed and took a hesitant step back but didn't make it far. "My dear Witcher… I thought they taught you about monsters where you came from?" His hands came out, long alabaster fingers wrapping around John's wrists to gently lift his hands.

This time John didn't fight. Sherlock had been right, if he'd wanted John dead then he wouldn't be alive. The Incubus obviously had the upper hand. Still John cleared his throat as his palms were placed over the creature's chest, over flat male pectorals, searching for words that seemed to vanish when he reached for them.

"They uh…" he cleared his throat again, feeling the flesh shifting beneath his hands, filling them. His brows shot up, "They taught us that Ccubi aren't overly dangerous. Mostly just pests that need to be shoo'd away now and then. Good with uh, with fire magic."

Sherlock hummed and pressed forward, leaned down and rested his forehead to John's. The scent of the creature suddenly filled the Witcher's lungs, heady and thick and altogether pleasant in so many ways. John got similar scents from brothels, but this was thankfully lacking the sour ale and stench of desperate sadness. It was making him a little dizzy.

"What your kind consider Succubus and Incubus… We're all the same. Our bodies are malleable, we can have whatever our suitor desires." He lowered his hands, but John's stayed. He swallowed and flexed them around soft breasts beneath. Pleasant, just the size he liked. "I can't see into your mind, but I _can_ see your desires. I see what you _lust_ for. I assure you that what you want most isn't as banal as breasts and a vagina."

Hands settled on John's waist, turned him slowly and walked them towards the rise of grass and soil leading up towards the forest proper.

"It's not?" John asked, his eyes flicking down to the set of beautiful lips curling upwards in a smirk.

"No." Sherlock leaned forward and purred, "You, my dear Witcher, _ache_ for someone to make you feel human again." He tipped his head and John's lips parted slightly as Sherlock's came so close he could just tip his chin - just like that.

He swallowed hard at the reality of what this creature was saying. Being a Witcher made him resistant to a lot of magics, but this wasn't magic, was it? This was something else. This was…this was…

His hands slipped down, settled on Sherlock's waist for a moment before he grabbed. Before he _took._

Mouths pressed together hungrily, greedily. He didn't worry about hurting this creature, it was as tough or perhaps even tougher than him. He sank his teeth into a plush lip and was rewarded with a moan, the break of skin smearing a bit of black blood over their mouths and chins. Sherlock returned the favor a moment later, as John's fingers dug into soft hips.

He'd never been with a man, he'd never particularly found one appealing. He'd certainly never been with a monster - most of those were…unpleasant at best.

His back hit grass and soil, barely registering that Sherlock had pushed them down. A tongue pushed into his mouth and _oh_ , that was a lot longer than a human tongue. He almost laughed at the reminder, he _did_ laugh. Sherlock grinned against his mouth and straddled his hips.

When was the last time he'd laughed during sex?

Long fingers came up, buried in his hair and held his skull, strong hands moving him _exactly_ how Sherlock wanted him.

He could feel Sherlock grinding against him, something warm and wet rubbing against his shaft, making him dizzy with sudden (or perhaps not so sudden) need. He wasn't worried about opening Sherlock, he wasn't human right? Didn't need it.

His hand came down, searched out a hole to fuck and his breath caught. Just beneath the balls of the cock rubbing quite insistently against his own, were _very_ womanly folds. They were wet and warm and slick. Curious, he sank two fingers inside and relished at the deep, throaty moan that worked from Sherlock's throat through into John's chest.

Their kiss broke, just barely enough, "Anything you desire."

That snapped something deep in John's brain. His fingers yanked out, Sherlock whimpered at the loss, and suddenly John was flipping them over. He shoved the Incubus into the dirt and grass, grabbed his own prick and shoved in with such force that their skin slapped together noisily.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, another moan ripped from him before John was setting a truly punishing pace. Hard, rough, animal in nature. John might have desired to feel human, but he wasn't anymore. Not quite. At his core he was a Witcher, he was a monster, almost as monster as this creature beneath him.

If Sherlock wanted a goddamn meal then John would make him fucking work for it.

He ripped his mouth away and moved down, sank his teeth into Sherlock's alabaster neck and snarled. His hands moved, grabbed the back of the creature's knees and hauled them up into the crooks of his elbows so that he could double him over and really work.

Yes. This was something he'd never gotten before. The ability to _fuck_ someone without worry, without stress. Let loose and _feel_ for a while.

He proved the rumors of a Witcher's stamina, fucked for long minutes before adjusting their position a bit and setting right back in.

Sherlock took it all with achingly sweet sounds. Pleasure, a bit of pain, enthusiasm, and the ability to keep up where any other woman, where and other _human_ would have long since faltered.

Gods above, he'd almost killed Sherlock and missed this.

When he came it was as violent and loud as the rest of their activities. He snarled and buried himself, spilling and biting down on Sherlock's neck yet again, leaving more indents, getting a little more blood.

Sweet Mother that was good.

He could feel it. Beyond the pulsing pleasure of his balls emptying, something _pulling_ at him. Sherlock had gone still, his sweet body pulsing around John, milking him like any woman's orgasm, just with ten times the force. But this pull wasn't on his dick, it was something deeper. Like every muscle in his body was exerting.

Sherlock was feeding.

For a moment John thought to stop him, but then…then this would end.

The pull faded and Sherlock practically _vibrated_ with renewed energy. John didn't feel nearly as fatigued as he thought he would have, but then…

They were spinning, rolling again, and his back was in the dirt once more. Sherlock was overtop him, still gripping John's cock with his body. John hadn't softened. He could easily go two or three rounds with needing only moments between. He might not produce as much seed, but his body didn't seem to know the difference.

Sherlock's eyes were bright silver, sharp as John's knives, and absolutely delighted.

"Now _that_ was a meal," he purred as he leaned down, crushed their lips together again and rolled his hips.

"And now," the creature hummed, long and low, "It's time for dessert."

* * *

John lost track of time. They fucked again, rested briefly, then fucked some more. At some point Sherlock stopped feeding, but John almost missed the pull. It was a little intoxicating.

He stopped counting. It all blended together, the day was a blur.

He'd skinned and cooked his hare at some point, given only just enough time to eat before he was being put right back to work.

When things came back together, when time stopped blurring and the world made sense again, it was just before dawn. He'd lost an entire day to Sherlock's hunger and lust, and he wasn't even a little bit upset about that.

At least, not until his muscles screamed and his head pounded like Harriet had kicked it.

He was sprawled on his bedroll, still very naked but covered by one of his thin travel blankets. He was also very much alone.

Still, he dutifully pulled himself up to sit and groaned. Harriet gave him a judgmental look and he ignored it pointedly.

He found his smalls and armor just within reach, not folded but piled close at least. As he pulled the pieces on, something tumbled out of his breeches, a small parchment and drawstring leather bag.

He picked up the parchment and adjusted his eyes to see the elegant scrawl in the minimal light.

_My Dearest Witcher,_

_I have no doubt that your head will be foggy - an unfortunate side effect of my feeding. Worry not, you're a strong man and should be just fine by the noonday sun._

_Still, if you're so inclined, sprinkle the herbs I've left into your canteen. It will help clear your head. I would hate to see some unintelligent monster put an end to you before I get to have more fun._

_-S_

John just scoffed. Sherlock was a bit of a prick, wasn't he? He wondered if that was a Ccubi thing or just a _Sherlock_ thing. He tended to think it was the latter.

At least he knew it wasn't the last time he would see the Incubus.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, congratulations. Let me know if you liked it or if you're still going, "What the fuck was she thinking?"


End file.
